30+ My life living with HIVhttps://aundaray.wordpress.com
Because everday can be a positive day living with HIV
Wed, 19 Dec 2018 10:19:00 +0000 en
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1 http://wordpress.com/https://aundaray.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/cropped-20171001_161446-01.jpeg?w=3230+ My life living with HIVhttps://aundaray.wordpress.com
3232Coming Out of the Dark: HIV and Traumahttps://aundaray.wordpress.com/2018/08/06/coming-out-of-the-dark-hiv-and-trauma/
https://aundaray.wordpress.com/2018/08/06/coming-out-of-the-dark-hiv-and-trauma/#respondMon, 06 Aug 2018 20:46:44 +0000http://aundaray.wordpress.com/?p=472“You look like you’re losing weight”

This was the statement a co-worker shared with me recently. They reported that I was looking thinner than usual. To many people, hearing you looked thin would be welcomed. For myself, it brought forth a fear that had me wanting to run into the bathroom to see if I appeared sick. My heart pounded as I looked in the mirror for a sign of anything signaling something was wrong. It was a comment that triggered a flashback to my early days of learning I had HIV. A time when looking thin or appearing to lose weight was associated with having what was referred to as “full-blown AIDS.” It was either that or you were accused of being on crack cocaine.

After calming down and taking the remark as a compliment, I questioned my reaction. The more I examined my feelings, the more I was able to identify my response. I was still living the trauma of having HIV.

Identifying my trauma was not easy as it’s something that is rarely if ever talked about. When I go to my doctor visits, we talk about everything else connected to my care, but we don’t talk about trauma. Unless one is intentionally addressing their trauma, it remains untreated. In some cases, it’s disregarded as something in one’s head and they should easily “get over it.” Even sharing that the comments on my weight acted as a trigger to me, I know, will look in the eyes of many as a vanity issue. They don’t considering that for some dealing with trauma, what may look like a minor issue to others is a flashback to their reality.

Trauma generally refers to a deeply disturbing or distressing experience. Trauma can result from a situation, an event, or a series of events that you experience. Some can have long-lasting negative effects on your regular ability to function as well as on your mental, physical, social, emotional and spiritual well-being. Among people with HIV, trauma can have devastating mental and physical health consequences, including:

• Depression

• Problems with disease management

• Higher risk of behaviors associated with HIV transmission

• Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

Exploring theses consequences to trauma, I identified with all of them. I’m reminded of my previous struggle with depression and my return to high-risk actions. As I endured, I attached my behavior to the anger I felt of having HIV. I thought it was unrelated to any trauma, when in fact it was trauma that was in control.

Similarly, upon further examination of my co-workers’ comments on my weight, I didn’t know at the time that my reaction was a manifestation of PTSD. What appeared as a complimentary comment was in fact a trigger of earlier experiences in which my appearance was related to HIV.

My PTSD stress started well before I was diagnosed with HIV. It manifested when, as a teenager, I was silently dealing with being sexually abused as a child. This was an episode of my life when I was victimized for a year by a family member at the age of 10. Learning I now had HIV in my late teens compounded my earlier trauma and left me living a life of shame. Shame that, when triggered, drew me to the before-mentioned risk behaviors that included many episodes of risky and unsafe sexual encounters.

Triggers have a personal attachment to one’s trauma, and they can appear as subtle as a comment or more pronounced through perceived rejection from another. Even a particular scent or sight can make someone revert back to when their HIV negatively impacted their lives.

As someone who has been living with the disease for 32 years, I thought I could say that I’ve dealt with my status, yet with further examination, I also freely admit that I had never fully addressed the trauma that created my situation. Even when I was in counseling, I don’t think my trauma was fully addressed.

Yet there is a strong importance to introduce trauma-sensitive practices to the care of those living with HIV. Providers have an opportunity to interrupt the cycle of abuse by creating new patterns of health and well-being for patients. Especially for those who treat HIV-positive individuals on a regular basis. At the most, although they may not be a psychologist, they should have the basic understanding of trauma and insert routine screening. Treatment options, such as therapy, can be explored.

Looking at my triggers, I now recognize they’re attached to my early diagnoses and run in conjunction with fears of my initial diagnose. As someone living with HIV for 30 plus years, I also recognize that despite the longevity of my disease, when triggered I go back to that time in my life when my doctor told me I was positive. Even now, when my doctor shares the result of my blood work, I get an overall sense of anxiety, despite knowing I’ve been compliant with my medical care. Yet, it feels as if I will hear bad news, and this results in me falling into a place of shame, questioning my role in taking my medications.

My turning point was allowing myself the ability to claim my PTSD and by claiming it, start to work toward a solution to address it. As someone who lived constantly with shame, it was important for me to not let that same feeling block me from any treatment. My secondary goal in addressing my situation was finding someone who was adept at addressing trauma. It was important to find a mental health provider who could fully understand the presenting problems and their underlying issues in the context of my life.

Finally, it was important to research trauma and its relationship to HIV. Through my studying, I was now fully aware that this was more common than I thought—I was not alone. Yet many feel alone and don’t understand the full impact on how trauma affects their lives.

Given high rates of trauma and PTSD among people living with HIV, it is important for medical providers to offer trauma-sensitive services that help diagnose people as early as possible, overcome any barriers to them engaging in their own care, and make appropriate referrals to evidence-based treatment and interventions.

It’s time to start healing.

]]>https://aundaray.wordpress.com/2018/08/06/coming-out-of-the-dark-hiv-and-trauma/feed/051175_Coming-out.jpg_2bb6c277-61e1-4548-b837-ccb8193a8b43aundarayLooking for DICKhttps://aundaray.wordpress.com/2018/07/19/looking-for-dick/
https://aundaray.wordpress.com/2018/07/19/looking-for-dick/#respondThu, 19 Jul 2018 20:54:07 +0000http://aundaray.wordpress.com/?p=323From as long as I can remember I was a young man looking for dick. Even during my curiosity phase when I had yet to come out, the mystery of what someone else’s dick looked like was something I needed to solve. You can say my journey began when I discovered the power of my own penis. As a child, alone in the bathroom, accidentally brushing the head with my hand. At that moment, shocked at the feeling it provided. A feeling that curled my toes and raced my heart. A repeated movement with my hand and soon rewarded with a feeling I later learned called an orgasm.

I had to know more about this member between my leg. What was the power it held? And why did it tingle when I thought of a male’s body and not a woman’s. I was witnessing an invitation to my own sexuality. A dance that would move me around this thing we call life. A ballet taking me to the edge of my sexuality, scared of entering this new part of me.

“He’s funny”

“I think he’s one of them”

“He’s a homo”

“A freak.”

Words I would hear my family members direct to others. A warning sign to stay away as if we shared the same air, we too would be gay. A warning too late for me as I felt the difference inside of me. A feeling defined as boys my age running one way and myself running the other way. Scared as the only thing I knew about being gay was the sexual piece of it.

In my limited exposure to gayness, it was about men posing in X-rated magazines. Similar to the ones which sat next to the comic books. Pretending to look at the newest issue of Superman, when in actuality I was eyeing the cover of Playgirl. Seeing the bare chest of a male stranger looking back at me. Finally getting the nerve to stick a magazine under my shirt, hoping I wasn’t seen.

In the darkness of my basement, the Playgirl was my bible. My guide into this new world where images of nude men and elongated penises greeted me. Wondering did I have the same physical attributes to join this club. I memorized each image, carefully hiding the book away within a well-hidden hole in the basement wall. When I needed a lesson or wanted to see if I could replicate an orgasm, I’d venture back to my hiding spot. The Playgirl replaced with my new stolen treasure, a Honcho magazine. A more rugged and graphic display of men in various forms of undress. Instead of men sprawled solo they now participate in men on men action. Something which was new for me to see. Another chapter on my forthcoming gay life.

To be clear learning of your gayness and sexuality is not all about the sexual act. In fact, it was never about the sex but the person who wielded it. The glossed up, muscular man whose eyes seemed to be looking at you. The math teacher who showed you kindness. The swim coach who made you question if he was gay as well as you let your fantasies run free. They were all nice to look but even in my young mind, I knew there was more. I knew, but couldn’t yet prove that it wasn’t all about looks. It was about looking to find meaning. It was about clearing up the confusion of my identity.

In my search for self, I started finding someone who promised me they would make me feel better. Seeing a dim light shine over me they saw a glow of confusion and opportunity. He must have been in his mid-twenties as I was in my rebelling teenage years. Promises were thrown my way. Choice words and phrases with only one intention. His tool of choice, no pun intended, was the usage of his penis. He would be the first as I was promised to experience one without the struggles of worn paper or staples in the way. My interest got the better of me. It seemed like my search for dick and what it represented would be over. Little did I know it was the beginning? Little did I know the first dick I encountered had a substance that would lie in my body for the next 40 years. A new disease altering the course of the life of many.

When I learned I had HIV, you’d think my search for dick would end. Actually, it was when my search began. As a young man, I now had more freedoms in my search. I was no longer hiding magazines in basement walls. Magazines replaced by adult movies which I could watch in secret. I was bolder in my observation of men, as I gazed at their groins. I didn’t want love or romance or anyone to share my feelings with. It was all about looking for dick as I didn’t have to display emotions or feelings when I found one. You’d think learning of my status would make me run away from physical contact with others but in a way it makes me go forward. I wanted to punish myself. I wanted to scream and yell and ask myself how I let myself be a statistic. I wanted to get lost. Lost in my twisted reality.

My search for dick became obsessive as I saw it morph from sending out written personal ads, to sitting in front of an old computer at 3 am, trying to hide evidence of my search as the screeching modem gave me away. Elated when I hear, “You got mail.” Knowing someone took my bait.

My hunt took me into places like the bookstores and the gay porno section of the video store. Searching, trying to feed a hunger that seemed to never be satisfied. Each time I found someone, I was losing small aspects of myself. Yet I found I couldn’t stop.

Several times some of my quarries expressed feelings. Sharing they wanted to know me beyond the bedroom. Wanting to know me as a person. It was those moments the man in me reverted back to the young boy who wanted to run. It was those moments I realized I was still punishing myself for providing a host to this disease. I was becoming a master at sabotaging relationships. I was intent on not letting my walls down again. It would keep out anyone looking to hurt me. Yet I was not alone. I discovered there were others like me who used sex as a drug. As a way to forget, to move through their fog. Wondering how could someone love us, when we didn’t extend that love to ourselves?

Looking for dick

The rules started to change.

Swipe right if you’re interested, swipe left if not.

“Turn your location on?”

A reminder that you couldn’t upload nude or objective pictures. It was learning that dick was only 0.1 miles away from you. Literally your next door neighbor. Although it was now easy to find dick, if you were HIV positive you now saw reminders of your status. Profiles that asked if you were clean. Or stating boldly in their profiles, “No fems, no fats, negative only.”

Attachments become more difficult as now it was easier to objectify. It seemed you had unlimited choices and why settle for one when you can try to have them all. Faces start to blur as you no longer care what they look like but what can they do or how many inches. They soon stopped becoming a person and became disposable. On to the next.

For a while it was great as the handheld app allowed me to not be HIV positive. Within my profile, I had lines to create my story. A fiction I craft to connect. Somedays, I’m this. On other days I’m that. And I surmise others are doing the same so there’s no harm/no foul. Adam4AdamGrinderScruffJack’dTinderCraigslist all becomes a means to the end. Yet was this the way my life would end? Always looking? For what?

My search for dick placed my own happiness secondary. I never thought about the future. Until I got older.

Entering my thirties, although I didn’t know what I wanted, I knew what I didn’t want. It was a point that I looked back and realized I spent a large chunk of it looking for dick. That since my curious phase to my now adult self, it was all about empty sex. And as judgmental as this may sound, I was now the older men I use to crave. But there was now a different perspective. Would I be that man in his fifties, displaying his penis in the hopes of having sex with a stranger? Or in my sixties, realizing that the only way to fight loneliness and isolation is by making myself available on sex sites, hoping someone didn’t block my profile. I spent a lifetime running away from relationships and suddenly I wanted the same. I wanted someone to ask me how my day was after work, someone I could hold hands with while walking the dog. A constant presence and not random men ringing my doorbell for only one reason. I was afraid that with all the running I did from relationships, I wouldn’t have the tools to ever find someone.

Looking for me.

I knew what I had to do. I had to go cold turkey and remove myself from the online world of sex. I had to uninstall not only the apps on my phone but also my way of thinking. I had to relearn what it meant to be gay and not wrap it around the concept of being gay. I had to stop looking for dick and start looking for me. I had to stop punishing myself for my HIV status and allowing it so much control. I had to know that my end game was to find a relationship not with another, but learn how to be in a relationship with myself.

Who was I? What did I want? What didn’t I want? What makes me smile, cry, hurt and feel joy? What were my identities and how could I embrace each one? Learning how to understand my identity of being gay, of being black, of being a man and of being HIV positive. Not letting one identity overshadow another.

I was learning that you truly attract what you put out. If you look for only someone to relate to you physically, then you’ll find that person/s. But if you put out energy meant to draw in people who wanted to know you more than physical, you’d find that as well. Yet knowing to do it involved letting go of past fears and developing trust. It meant to be open.

My final lesson was to forgive myself. To look at my past experiences, not as a curse but learning experiences. By looking in the mirror and embracing that child who was curious and letting him know he could stop looking for dick and it was okay to start looking for love.